


Sunday Scars

by PeayitForward



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeayitForward/pseuds/PeayitForward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock?” Molly quietly asked gaining the mans attention. </p>
<p>“Yes Molly?” Sherlock rumbled out in his deep voice. </p>
<p>“Tell me about these scars. I don't remember most of them from the last time you were here.” Molly requested while pressing her lips to a still red and puckered scar near his shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Scars

**Author's Note:**

> There is talk about Sherlock's "suicide" and scars he's received in the line of work. This work is also posted at ff.net and my tumblr blog both of which are under the name Peay or PeayitForward.

It was a lazy Sunday morning for Molly. Sherlock had shown up in the middle of the night asking for refuge from the world outside. Molly knowing he was still hunting Moriarty’s network offered up her room as she had done many times in the past. Their relationship had started months after his “suicide”, while he was cooped up in her apartment waiting for word from Mycroft as to when it would be safe for him to leave London. It started as just sex, something to help his boredom and quiet his mind. Molly was more than happy to provide the distraction. After he left to begin his work Molly figured whatever it was they had had was over and she began to rearrange her life accordingly. Going out on dates, seeing other men, and generally trying to be more social. She even made time to see Greg, John and Mrs. Hudson on a semi-regular basis. Soon six months had passed and all of a sudden there he was again on her doorstep asking for entrance into her flat and bed again. 

They spent the weekend in bed, just enjoying each other as much as possible. He left on a Sunday night. It began to become a regular thing. Every few months he would take a break from his hunt and show up at her door, asking for entrance to her flat and bed, and every time she let him. She wasn’t sure when it had shift from just a way to blow off steam and quiet his mind to something more but it had. One weekend he asked her, after a rather vigorous session, if she would consider not seeing anyone else, just him. Molly told him she would have to think about it and would tell him next time he came around. It was less than a month before he showed up again, this time with flowers and a rather nice take-a-way dinner for the two of them. He explained that he was very serious about her not seeing anyone but him. She agreed that he would be the only one. Which brings us to this lazy Sunday morning a year and half after Sherlock had committed “suicide”. 

There was nothing particularly special about this Sunday. Molly had the weekend off and Sherlock had shown up in the middle of the night, as he tended to do. They were sprawled on Molly’s queen sized bed with only the sheets to keep them decent. Sherlock was laying on his stomach while Molly rested her cheek on his shoulder blade. She had been slowly tracing different scars on his back with the pads of her fingers. Ever so often Sherlock would let out a deep rumble of satisfaction. 

“Sherlock?” Molly quietly asked gaining the mans attention. 

“Yes Molly?” Sherlock rumbled out in his deep voice. 

“Tell me about these scars. I don’t remember most of them from the last time you were here.” Molly requested while pressing her lips to a still red and puckered scar near his shoulder. 

“Why would you want to hear about my scars?” Sherlock inquired. 

“Because I bet each one has a different and somewhat interesting story. I can already tell what made each scar but I want to know why it’s there.” Molly explained. 

Sherlock chuckled deeply. Of course Molly could tell what made the scars, it was what she did for a living. Being with a pathologist, it wasn’t easy to hide what made marks on his body. She always seemed to know just by looking. It was one of the reasons Sherlock cared for her so much. She was almost as brilliant as him when it came to deducing things about injuries and inflictions on bodies. 

“Very well, which one would you like to know about first?” He asked. 

Molly thought for a moment before carefully tracing a scar that ran along his lower spine. It was the oldest one and looked like it was professionally done. Most likely a surgical incision, Molly had deduced. 

“This one. Tell me about how you got it.” She said tracing it over and over again. 

“MMM, that one.” Sherlock rumbled. “That one is from when I was little. Mycroft and myself had been playing outside by a pond. Mummy had warned us to be very careful and to not climb on any of the rocks because it had rained and they were slippery. Of course being young and children we didn’t listen. Mycroft had climbed up first claiming he was king of the rocks and was smarter than me. I followed him to prove I was better. When I got to the top I tried to push him off. He of course pushed back. I lost my footing because it was slippery and fell down onto some lower rocks. My back had hit first and I was knocked out. Apparently Mycroft screamed so loudly mummy came running. After calling 999, I was rushed to the hospital. They had to preform surgery to reduce the swelling in the spine. There was a shunt placed there to relieve the pressure in my spine. So that is in fact a surgical scar.” Sherlock concluded. 

Molly hummed at him as she continued to trace it. After a few moments she shifted her body so she could reach the scar. Moving her head down she placed a light butterfly kiss on it. Her fingers trailed up his back a bit further till she found another scar to asked about. This one was on his left side by his ribs. 

“How about this one? The line isn’t very jagged, so something very sharp made that cut and since it’s not very long I would deduce it was actually a stab wound.” Molly breathed out while lightly pressing the area around the scar. 

“Your deduction would be correct. It is a stab wound, though no a very deep one.” 

“Where did you get it from? It’s rather old as well.” 

“That one was from when I was in Uni. I had gone out to get myself dinner one night, when I heard a rather strange noise coming from an alleyway. I decided to investigate what the noise was because it sounded like a muffled cry. When I reached the back of the alley there was a man holding a young lady against a wall. He had his pants unzipped and it appeared as if he was getting ready to violate her. Her skirt had been hiked up around her hips and her underpants were discarded next to her. She looked frightened and I deduced she was being rapped. So I decided to step in. Well the bloke didn’t take it to well and used a knife on me before I could get it away from him. It didn’t knick anything major internally.” Sherlock summarized. He wasn’t particularly found of that memory. 

“Oh, well that was nice of you to save her.” Molly mumbled against his side as she kissed that particular scar. 

“Are you going to kiss every scar after I tell you the story to them?” Sherlock inquired. 

“Possibly.” Molly giggled. Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh before shifting on the bed to get more comfortable. Molly took three of her fingers and traced three long jagged scars that ran from just belong his right shoulder to right above his left hip. 

“How about these? They look like someone whipped you with a cat o’nine tails.” 

Sherlock turned his head to look at Molly for a moment. He was a little stunned she even knew what a cat o’nine tails was, let alone the marks it left. 

“And how would you know what scars from a cat o’nine tails looks like Dr. Hooper?” Sherlock asked. 

Molly smiled a bit and stared into his eyes, “Well I did have a life before you Mr. Holmes.” 

Sherlock took a moment to digest the information he had just been given. Did that mean she had cases with these scars before? Or was it something more? Something she enjoyed in the bedroom before meeting him? He would have to ask her about it another time. Her fingers were rather distracting at the moment, tracing up and down those three marks. 

“Well what do you deduce about them Dr. Hooper?” Sherlock asked grinning. 

Molly studied them for a few moments before saying anything. She ran her fingers over each one on it’s own, then all three together, before finally running her palm down them. 

“These are newer on your back, only a few months old at the most. They aren’t very deep but that doesn’t always mean anything. The angle, at which they are, indicates the person who hit you was left-handed. They hit you a few times in the same spot and were fairly accurate about where they were hitting you. These were never properly treated and would have needed stitches.” Molly concluded her deductions and rested her chin on Sherlock’s left shoulder by his ear. 

“Very good. Yes, the person who beat me was in fact left-handed and hit me several times, five to be exact. I never did get them treated because there was nowhere for me to go. I was in the middle of Siberia after being captured by some of the Russian mob. They held me for several days before I could escape. They were convinced I was had been spying on them for the government, when in fact I had just been following a lead on one of the men in Moriarty’s network. They thought they could beat information out of me. How terribly dull and predictable of them. I escaped from the prison they were holding me in and managed to get a message to Mycroft as to my whereabouts but it was a few more days before he could get anyone to me for back up. So I took shelter in a small storage shed thirty miles from the prison and took care of myself till I could be extracted.” Sherlock explained. 

Molly let out a small gasp at the feats Sherlock had to go through just to escape. He must have been in terrible pain while waiting for Mycroft’s team to rescue him, all alone in the middle of nowhere and those marks on his back. Molly felt a tear escape her eye as she trailed kisses down those particular scars. Despite Sherlocks nonchalant way of talking about it, she knew he had been scared and in pain. No matter how tough he pretended to be, she knew him and really saw him. 

“How about this one?” She asked running her finger over a small scar just below his neck. 

“That one was courtesy of the Woman.” Sherlock stated and said no more on the matter. Molly knew better than to press him on the matter. When it came to the Woman, Sherlock was fairly tight lipped. Molly didn’t know whether to be grateful or hurt by that fact. Either he was trying to spare her the pain and embarrassment of knowing or he was hiding something from her. Either way she never pressed him for information about that particular time in his life. 

Sherlock sighed lightly as Molly continued to trace other scars for a few more minutes. She finally stopped at one that she knew something about. She has sewn him up after the incident. 

Mycroft had flown her to France to deal with it. Apparently Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone else touch him at the time and just kept asking for her. It had been after a rather difficult case of chasing down one of Moriarty’s higher ups. After Sherlock managed to corner the fellow in a flat, he had lashed out. Sherlock didn’t know he had a gun on him and had paid dearly for it. The man had shot Sherlock through the shoulder. There was a matching scar on the front of Sherlock’s shoulder as well. According to Sherlock the man had threated him about Molly. Claiming someone was following her, waiting for his command to kill her. Sherlock had lost it and attacked him with his bare hands instead of waiting for help like he was suppose to. After everything had ended he had demanded that Molly be brought to him. Mycroft had refused at first but eventually relented when Sherlock threatened to come back to London and just show up at Saint Bart’s to check on her. 

So in the middle of the night Mycroft had shown up at her flat and whisked her away to somewhere in the countryside of France to fix Sherlock. That had been an interesting few days. Sherlock had refused to let her would of his sight for even a moment during that time. It made having to use to loo rather awkward when he demanded to be right on the other side of the door the whole time. Eventually though Molly had convinced him she was all right and there was no danger. Mycroft had even promised to have her escorted to and from work and post guards at both places. Sherlock agreed somewhat reluctantly to those conditions. Molly hadn’t even been asked her opinion on the matter but she didn’t mind if it meant Sherlock would stop following her to the loo. 

Molly laid several kisses to that particular spot as she thought about the memory. Finally she felt Sherlock shift under her again. Bracing her self on her arms, she watched as he turned over. Once he was comfortable on his back, he reached out and pulled her down to his chest. He tucked her head under his chin and wrapped his arms around her waist. She splayed her fingers over the area his heart was and began tapping a beat with them. They quietly laid there for what felt like an hour but had really only been a few minutes. 

Sherlock finally released Molly’s waist and reached out for her hand. Twining their fingers together he studied them. After he was finished he raised them to his mouth them gave them a gentle kiss. 

“I’m not very good at explaining how I feel or particularly how you make me feel but I want you to know Molly Hooper that you matter to me. You matter so much it hurts sometimes and I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.” Sherlock explained while looking at their intertwined fingers. 

Molly smiled at him, “I know Sherlock and I love you too.” 

Sherlock smiled gently at her before stretching his head down to kiss her on the lips. It was a soft, warm kiss meant to convey everything at once. It was the perfect kiss for a lazy Sunday.


End file.
